The Walk
by CrystallineSolid
Summary: Greg meets Nick out near Lake Mead after returning from a funeral in a city outside Vegas. Contains subtle Greg angst over his friend's death and his past with said friend. Nick gets caught up between anger and sympathy towards Greg, and there's a mix of jealousy in there that Nick refuses to admit to as well. It's a weird story; the summary is never going to make sense. SLASH
1. Chapter 1

We walked along the shore of Lake Mead. The water was dark and still in the night air. The occasional gust of wind created rippling waves that glinted in the moonlight. We stopped walking and stared at the black water.

Greg looked over his shoulder at the crime scene behind us: the flashing police lights, the headlights of patrol cars. The lights were slowly fading as we moved further and further away from the scene. Greg scuffed his feet against the wet soil beneath him. He looked up at the sky; the stars were few and far between, covered by grey clouds moving slowly across the sky. I nudged him, and we began walking again.

I walked with my hand pressed against the small of Greg's back, guiding him forwards. I glanced at Greg, cast in shadows; he was smoky and dull in the pale moonlight. The air stifled us; the sky promised rain. The desert was dangerous tonight. _Who ever knew the heavens menace so? Those that have known the world so full of faults._

Even more portentous that it night, it seemed, was Greg himself. I had never seen the man wearing a suit in the desert before. His jacket, silhouetted against the lake like a black cape, made him appear hard and unreachable. Cold as stone.

The sight was as strange as the situation:

Greg had shown up at my crime scene about thirty minutes ago. I hadn't expected him to drive up to the scene in his little Jetta. I didn't even know he was back in Vegas yet.

I walked up to greet Greg, just as he stepped out of the car. Greg looked haunted and harsh in the bright light emanating from the headlights of the patrol cars. His black suit seemed to drag him into the earth.

"Hey, Nick," Greg said with a crooked smile. He sounded even worse than he looked.

"Hey," I said, and I shook his hand—cold. "When did you get back to Vegas?"

Greg smiled faintly and shrugged. "Couple of hours ago."

That concerned me. "Aww, man, don't tell me you came here straight from the airport."

Greg rubbed the back of his neck and mumbled: "Stopped at home first. Dropped off my luggage, got my car."

_But you didn't change,_ I thought, but didn't dare to say. I reached forwards and straightened the lapels of Greg's jacket._ From the looks of it, not since the funeral this afternoon. _

Greg sighed with his whole body, and let his head drop to his chest. He stared at my hands.

"You on shift?" I murmured.

Greg stood up straighter. "Nope."

I jerked my head in the direction of the crime scene and said: "Let's go."

We slipped under the crime scene and I got to work. Greg stood idly by, arms across his chest, head to the side, watching.

"You missed a blood drop over there," he muttered, pointing it out to me. I was on my hands and knees in the dirt.

"Thanks," I mumbled. I swabbed it and sat back on my heels. "Wanna run it?"

Greg frowned and wrapped his arms around him tighter. "No."

I sighed and snapped off my gloves. "Okay. Let's go for a walk."

And here we were: walking along the shore of Lake Mead.

"How was the funeral?" I asked.

"Nice enough, I guess," Greg muttered hesitantly, opting to keep his gaze on the ground in front of him. "'Her brother delivered the eulogy," he cleared his throat and breathed unevenly. I stepped in front of him and gripped his elbows, forcing him to stop walking. "I guess it didn't really hit me until I heard him talking about her, ya know? I didn't," he cleared his throat again. "I didn't expect her to just die like that, ya know?"

He glanced at me, expecting some sort of the reply, but I had nothing to say. I was aware of him watching me like he was waiting to see something on my face and he hadn't seen it yet. I didn't know what he wanted to see, or how to show it to him, or what to say, and he turned his head away.

"She used to wear her brother's shirts. I didn't know that," he said at last, and once we had walked for a long time without saying anything, he admitted it. "I cried at the funeral."

I gripped Greg's chin in my hand and turned his head to face me. I stared into his eyes, and pushed his limp hair off his forehead. I held his face in both my hands now, and I grimaced. Greg hadn't even cried at Warrick's funeral. Fuck. What did she mean to him?

My heart dropped into my stomach, and I had this sudden image of a rock falling into a bottomless pool of water and hardly making a sound. I stopped touching his face, but Greg didn't move. His eyes too wide, his mouth slightly ajar, the young man stared, and I stared back.

I felt pretty bad, and even though I didn't want to think it, I thought it:

Had he fucked her?

* * *

The problem arose, really, because Russell couldn't give both of us the time off. We had approached him in his office; we'd hoped for a couple of days off so we could fly out for the funeral, but Russell reminded us, regretfully, that with Morgan and Finn out of town for a conference, the team was already down two CSIs.

Greg was sitting in one of the chairs opposite Russell's desk. His legs were crossed and he was sitting up stiffly, his hands clenched into fists and pressed hard against his thighs. I felt restless; didn't want to sit. So I stood behind Greg and gripped the back of his chair.

"You're sayin' we can't go?" I asked, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. At my words, Greg closed his eyes and grimaced, as though he'd only just understood what Russell had been implying.

"Okay," Russell said, giving in. "Okay, I think I could spare one of you."

Greg and I were silent, but when Russell said that, Greg's face took on a haunted look, and I slid my hand as subtly as I could, off the chair and onto Greg's shoulder.

"You go," I murmured, gazing down at Greg. "You knew her better."

Greg looked up at me, and bit his lip. He seemed conflicted. The truth was, I don't think either of us had the heart to go alone.

"Okay," Greg breathed into a sigh. He stood and wiped his hands on his thighs. He looked back at Russell and nodded. "Thanks boss."

"How did she die?" Russell asked, not unkindly.

"Some bastard slit her throat," I said, my voice gruff with unshed tears. I knew both Russell and Greg noticed, and I was angry now. Greg looked away.

Russell walked around his desk and put a hand on my shoulder. "You gonna be okay?" he asked. I nodded and blinked rapidly

Russell glanced at Greg, but the young man was staring at the wall. "She was a friend of yours?" Russell asked. Greg didn't react.

"Yeah," I said, wiping my eyes. "She was a CSI. She worked with us."

Greg finally looked up, his expression dazed. "Her name was Riley," he said very softly. "She was—"

And then he stopped.

"Nothing," he finally said. "Nothing. I don't know how to say it right."

* * *

We came across the tree as we were walking. The spindly acacia was dark and sinister against the light of the moon. I halted before it; it made me want to walk away in the opposite direction and leave it behind. Greg didn't seem to find it at all frightening, though, and he sank to the ground beneath it. I stood and watched the shadows of the leaves and branches play across Greg's face. Then I sighed, gave in, and sat down next to my friend.

I touched Greg's back, and felt the warmth seeping though his clothes. I touched him right between the shoulders blades, and felt the lean muscles ripple as Greg moved. He brought his knees up to his chest, and rested his cheek against his knee, with his face turned away from me. I felt his strong back and stared at the back of his head.

From this close, I could smell him. The sick smell of the airplane still clung to Greg's clothes, but beneath it was the faint scent of his cologne. I closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing in Greg's scent and the vast, eternal smell of the desert night, and the lake, and the wet dirt beneath us.

I leant back, and rested my weight on my arms. I splayed out my legs and relaxed. Now I felt calm, and all that irrational fear of the tree and the shadows and the darkness seeped out of me.

"Sam missed ya, you know?" I said after much thought. It was the safest and sweetest and truest thing I could think of saying, and I knew, somehow, that Greg needed something true.

I must have done something right, because Greg turned to face me, and he smiled, really smiled. "Yeah?" Greg said.

"Mmmhmmm," I said, smiling freely. "Friday night he went right up to the front door and sat there barkin' at it for twenty minutes. And, get this, it was seven-thirty, right about the time you usually come over."

Greg chuckled softly, and played with the dirt. I watched him run his long, thin fingers through his mud. I wanted to hold Greg's hand, wanted to touch him all over, but we were at a crime scene, and anyhow, I felt there had to be some limits to my sentimentality. But Greg looked so pitiful, like a little bat, all wrapped up, all hunched over, his jacket draped around him like a cape. Like a little, blind bat who'd forgotten how to fly.

So I leant forwards and kissed Greg lightly and tenderly. It was our first kiss since Greg had left three days before, and it could have been stronger and harder and more beautiful, but instead it was soft, and ordinary, and hardly there at all.

"I feel…" Greg looked hungry but tired. "Like going for a swim."

That was all; all that Greg said, or did; all that was left a kiss, of our separation, of our grief. I felt a great, churning pain deep in my chest, but I kept my mouth shut, and all the cruel words in, as Greg slowly, and systematically stripped.

First Greg stood, and stretched; he rubbed his hands on his thighs and stared out at the water and built his resolve. And I watched… unnoticed, I watched.

Greg shrugged off his jacket—a smooth, careful roll of his shoulders that was nonchalant, but forced. He passed it to me without looking; he was still gazing very pointedly at the lake. I took his jacket and folded it neatly, and stared hard and carefully at Greg. I felt very, very small, seated on the ground with Greg looming over me, thin and tall and dark, and now slowly, ever so slowly, unbuttoning his shirt.

Greg's chin was pressed to his chest, and he stared at his fingers as they undid button after button. I stared at Greg's hair lying limp across his forehead, and at his nose and lips, and right down to his fingers as they played with the buttons, and then the sliver of hard chest and smooth skin that showed through the open shirt.

I watched the muscles in Greg's back stretch and flex as he pulled off the shirt; I saw the scars, the skin, the freckles, the body I knew well—

Then I watched Greg toss the shirt to the ground, and watched as it landed in a mess next to my hand. I kept gazing there, at the shirt, as Greg toed off his shoes, and yanked off his socks. Then I saw his pants hit the hard ground, and I dared to look at Greg's slim ankles as they stepped out of his pants. I kept my gaze fixed on Greg's belt, unbuckled, still in the belt-loops… and I thought of those pants on Greg's body. The pain in my chest was growing, and it took everything in me not to feel aroused or feel angry, though my head was screaming at me to feel both.

When I dared to look up, Greg was already halfway out to the lake. He was almost black, standing out against the light of the moon; he was so black, that it was hard to make out the outline of his boxer-briefs, and for a moment, I let myself believe Greg was naked, walking out to water at night.

I leant forwards with my elbows on my knees and watched Greg step into the water, and walk steadily into the shimmering, dark lake. Greg waded out till the water was up to his waist, and then he sank into the water, and spread his arms out across the surface. He threw his head back and stared at the sky and the stars and the distance beyond.

I fantasied about stripping down and joining the man in the water. I wanted to leave this world of death behind, and sink into the cool water and cool sand, and touch Greg's beautiful, cool skin.

But there was the crime scene, of course, and work, and the dead body. There was the steady pain in my chest, and Riley's funeral, and Greg's cold nonchalance. I rubbed my face, and folded Greg's clothes carefully and tried to breathe.

I stood and began walking back. I stopped and stared at Greg's footprints in the sand, a straight line of prints right up to the water, and I thought about how small those footprints were, how small Greg and I were, next to our little crime scene. I looked up at the great vast sky, and out into the distance at the big city lights and felt small and sick inside.

I walked alone along the shore of Lake Mead, the pain in my chest mounting. The crime scene grew nearer and nearer, and with it, life resumed, and I left Greg behind: Greg, in the lake, the pain washing off him with the water, while I walked alone along the shore of Lake Mead.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you to my lovelies Laura, delia, Ali, Lover of Emotions, Mamabirdcat (love the name, btw) and Marymel for the reviews! Hope you like this chapter, though it's kinda shortish.

* * *

If my head had been in the right place, I could have wrapped up the scene in under an hour, but it took me a little longer.

Afterwards, I walked back out to Greg, and stopped by the acacia tree again. It looked even more ghostly now that I was alone, with Greg's clothes lying there on the ground like Greg himself had just slipped into the earth and vanished.

But there he was out in the water. He'd drifted a bit to the right of the tree. Instead of walking straight out to him, I followed his footprints right until my feet hit the hard, wet dirt closest to the water. I paused again, staring at his smudged footprints where they disappeared into the water. I swallowed down the hollow feeling in my throat, and then I turned right and walked along the lake till I was directly in front of Greg. I stared at my reflection in the water, and at my long, dark shadow.

I didn't look up until after I'd called out to him—GREG! His head shot up and he stared at me from far, far away. He was still submerged up to the shoulders, and all I could see of him was the glimmer of water on his neck and face and hair. I watched his steady, smooth fluidity turn stiffer and stiffer until he had lost that lovely lack of self-consciousness a man can have when he thinks he's alone. I saw it in him for just a moment; I had that honest beauty that Greg gets when he doesn't know he's being watched. But I lost it, with my GREG! shouted out and echoed in the rippling water.

I'd seen it before, though, on the nights we spent together, when he'd fall asleep before me or wake up after me; on the sofa watching television, in the DNA lab, the layout rooms.

But I couldn't stand it just now, not with this feeling in my chest and my throat.

He stood up and walked up to him, raising his knees high above the water with ever step. I could hear the loud splashes his feet made as he walked, and I watched his dark chest and long legs, and when he was close enough, the water dripping off his hair and onto his face.

Then he was right in front of me, and I stared into his yellow-brown eyes. His hair was darkened by the water, and I liked the look of it, as dark as his eyes, pressed against his forehead and the back of his neck.

If I looked down, which I did, just for a moment, I could see his briefs plastered to his body, showing it off perfectly. The last time I touched him there was just over a week ago, so I didn't look for long, because I wanted him bad.

I wrapped by hands round the cool, wet flesh of his upper arms and squeezed the lean muscles and bit my lip. There was a wire of desperation running like electricity through the both of us.

He wrapped his arms across his stomach, and I put my hands over his, which curled around his sides. He hunched his shoulders and gazed back at the scene. "The patrol officer probably thinks I'm a maniac," he laughed nervously. "He new or something? I've never worked with him."

"Name's Gordon," I said with a frown. I didn't know what to do with Greg because he made me feel stupid, and I think that I was making him feel stupid too. "He's a friend. He's not going to tell anyone about this."

"That's not what I meant," Greg said, low and irritated.

"Well, you're not the one on shift."

He was quiet for a long time and as he looked his over my shoulder, I could see the anger is his hard, dull gaze. "Why are you being like this?" he asked coldly.

"You haven't told me yet."

"Told you what?!" Defensive and harsh.

"What you haven't told me yet," I replied, calm and cold and hard. I was both pleased with myself and ashamed, and I felt a chill in my body as he started to become anxious. I had got through to him.

"Okay," he said with a shrug. "I… have to tell you something. Important. That I haven't _told_ you yet," he said the last bit angry and hard and mocking, and I knew I had hurt him. Still that odd swell of pride and shame.

He pulled his hands out of mine and clenched his fists. I held his hips instead and drew him into a hug. I ran my hands up his warm, wet back, and felt the water seep into my clothes. He was stiff in my arms, and he put his hands on my shoulders.

"Don't do that," he said, still in my arms. "It's not that bad."

It made me a little sick inside.

He pulled away. "Clothes first."

We walked back up to the acacia, and I put my hand where it belonged on his back.

He wore his suit like it was a shield, and in it, I could see that he felt taller and stronger, but his wet face and his wet hair gave him a look of great tragedy. And then he said it.

When he told me, his voice shook just slightly, and he made it a point to stare straight into my eyes as he spoke. It unnerved me greatly.

He said it simply, so simply, that it almost didn't hurt. He pulled all of the romance and the tragedy out of it, and stripped it down to the bare essentials, like some sort of medical report.

"Riley called me three weeks after she left, and she said she lost a baby and," this is where his voice shook, "and the baby was mine."

"Lost?"

"Miscarriage," he muttered. I waited for him to go on, but he didn't. That son of a bitch.

Part of me pitied him, and part of me felt disgusted by him, and I guess underneath it all was how I loved him.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thank you every one for the lovely reviews! This is the last chapter. I hope you guys like the ending!

* * *

"I should have known you were sleeping with her."

He stopped walking and looked at me. The lake and the desert slipped away; I was caught in his hard eyes. The odd mixture of anger and grief made his gaze look dull, lifeless.

_He makes me sick,_ I thought, _but I still love him. God, that's worse._

Greg stuffed his hands into his pockets and shook his head slowly. He clenched his jaw and walked ahead without me, because really, could he deny it? _I'd_ seen them flirting; I'd seen the _chemistry… _Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, but what I kept imagining was the two of them having a _child _together.

I know him; I know him harsh and sweaty. So, I guess I could picture him fucking her. It made me mad, it turned me on. More than that, it made me ashamed.

I walked behind him, maintaining my distance. He reminded me of some sort of forlorn Johnny Cash walking alone in the moonlight—

Alone.

I sped up and put my hand on his shoulder. He didn't stop. Before I could speak, he said: "You're upset."

"You lost a child. _You're_ upset."

He stared at me. "Don't say it like that. That's not how it was," and a few minutes later, "Anyway, it was three years ago."

The long years hit me quite hard then. "I didn't notice anything was wrong," I said.

He put his arm around me, and said kindly, "I didn't want you to."

I put my hand on his chest. He stopped walking, and _really_ looked at me. "Did you really not want me to?" I asked.

He was quiet. "I don't know," he said at last. "I didn't want to talk about it." He shrugged, and walked on. "How can you ever _real_ly know what you want?"

Well, that's a way to put it, I thought.

"Why didn't you want me to know?" I asked, trying, and failing, to sound nonchalant. I still didn't know, not really. Not the details. I knew he probably wouldn't tell me.

_He_ stopped _me_ this time, and said harshly. "If _you_ went out with your coworker and she skipped town three weeks later, would _you_ want everyone to know?"

My chest felt tight with rage. "I'm not _every_one, Greg. _I'm_…"

"You weren't my _boy_friend then!" he exclaimed when I didn't go on.

"But I _was_ your friend."

He rolled his eyes and walked ahead. I didn't follow. I was more than his _friend_. I was more than a _goddamn friend_.

"I have a lot of friends, Nick," he said over his shoulder. It hurt, even though I knew he didn't mean it.

"You were happy to just go it alone then?" I called out to him.

"I wasn't _ha_ppy about _any_ of it."

"Could you just stop _wal_king and _look_ at me?"

He turned around. We faced one another from a few yards away, like we were about to fight a duel. We already were fighting one, I guess.

"Was it bad?" I asked.

"What?"

"When you heard about the baby."

"It wasn't really a baby yet," he muttered. He knew that wasn't what I meant. After a beat he said. "It made me think about things I hadn't thought about before." He paused, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I guess it was pretty bad."

I walked up to him in three, long strides and hugged him. He didn't hug me back; his arms were crushed awkwardly between us. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry that you lost her, and that you lost her baby."

He pressed his face into my shoulder. "I guess part of me wanted it," he muttered. "I guess once the baby's there, and you start thinking about it, a part of you will always want it."

I put my hand in his hair.

* * *

Greg was leaning against my car. I stood in front of him. Instead of looking at him, I looked at his reflection in the car door. He patted my shoulder real quick to get my attention.

He was still wet; that was probably the most beautiful thing about him.

We were alone again. We reached the scene about fifteen minutes ago; the last of the police officers had just left, so it was just the two of us. All we could do now was sit in our cars and drive away, but I missed walking.

"Do you suppose there's any way to fix this?" Greg said. He looked at me like a problem that needed to be solved.

"I'm sure there is."

He looked away and scowled. He tossed his head back against the car, and said: "Can I kiss you properly just once?"

"Fuck you."

He looked at me for a long time with a strange expression on his face. He shouldered past me, and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked up and blinked. When I realized he was close to tears, I was shocked, because I'd never seen him cry and I'd never _made_ him cry.

We were both quiet for a long time during which he composed himself. He didn't actually cry; I was grateful. During the stretch of silence I rationalized it: grief had made him sensitive. But I didn't believe it could happen to him because of _her._

"Did you love her?" I asked

"I wish she wasn't dead."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

He started slow and thought over every word before he said it: "I know how you're feeling," he said, which made me fucking angry, but he didn't let me interrupt. "I know you don't want to admit it, 'cause you you've al_read_y made yourself vulnerable, and, and I haven't said _a word_ about how _I'm_ feeling, so," he chuckled, "So I have the advantage, you know, what I mean is… I'm sorry that I was—unfaithful to you."

He paused and breathed hard. My chest ached with his words; I never thought he'd have to say them to me.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, looked at the ground and muttered. "We had a-a silent agreement that we were _in_terested in each other. We were," he let out a harsh breath, "about to _get_ somewhere and I…" he tightened his jaw and then said. "I shouldn't have done it, I guess."

I could sense he had something else on his mind. "What is it you're not saying?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

"Greg."

"Look," he gestured jerkily with his hands. "If you want to stop fighting than just let it be."

"That's not how it works."

"I said it wasn't important," he said. He sounded so timid now that I felt a surge of apprehension.

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Please. I won't get mad."

He closed his eyes, and when I asked him once more, he said. "I'm just trying to think of a kind way to say it."

Anxiety stirred deep inside of me.

With his eyes still closed, he said shakily, "I waited for you, Nicky, for a _long_, long time before I slept with her."

I exhaled loudly. "Is that why you did it?"

He shook his head, and covered his eyes with one hand. "It's because she was the first woman whom I was attracted to, in, uh, in a very, very long time."

Then, in a flash I visualized it again: Greg and Riley with a baby. A family… happy. I knew then that he would have made a great father, that he would have fallen in love with her, and they'd have been happy.

But he'd fallen in love with me.

In a moment my anger slipped away, and I looked at him standing there, hiding his eyes. He was so different now from the cold, distant man whom I saw swimming in the lake. Then, he'd been beautiful, daring, bold—but his nonchalance, his composure had burned me. Now, we were equally vulnerable, both of us stripped of dignity and defense.

I was surprised that I felt lighter now, no longer angry. I realized that it was enough for me that he'd said sorry and told me the truth. That is all I needed from him, I thought, but I still had to fight for it. I smiled.

I moved his hand off his face, and said. "Would you like to kiss me properly now?"

"Please," he said and kissed me with that same sad look on his face.

I leant back against the car. He had his hands on my face, and he moved with me. I felt his weight against me, his leg between mine, his hard shoulders pressed against me. He tasted like I remembered him to taste, and his waist was still that perfect size.

As he pulled away I realized that his kisses were just the same, even though I now knew he had kissed her. He was not a different Greg just because he had fucked Riley Adams.

I placed my hands into his back pockets. "Still that perfect little ass," I said.

He laughed with his head tossed back. I thought, he's no different from whom I know; not even for having loved her.

But he'd loved her, and now she was dead. That could change a person; even him.

"Every time I start to feel a little better, I think how she was younger than both of us, and I start to feel bad again," I said.

"I feel sick about it even when I don't think," Greg said.

I looked away because I was almost crying. "What I hate is that nothing in Vegas has changed because she's dead," I said. "The days you were gone, you should have seen it, Greg, even you wouldn't be able to tell the difference… if I didn't think about it, it was like it had never happened."

"Nothing ever changes," Greg said. He looked out across the lake. "Everything's like the desert: _flat_. Nothing changes enough to make a difference."

"I hate it when you talk like that," I said.

"So do I. I'm sorry." He paused. "We should go."

He stepped away from me, but I asked him to hold on for a second. Then I asked him if she believed in God.

"I never asked," he said.

It was somehow easier with Warrick, knowing that he believed he was going to a better place.

"Do you believe?" I asked him. I knew he believed in ghosts.

"Sometimes," he said.

"I do."

He thought about that for a moment. "I guess I do too."

He kissed me on the forehead.

"How long will you be at work?" he asked.

"A while."

"Come over after, okay?" He sort of smiled.

I sort of smiled too. "If you're asleep?"

"Spare key," he said. "Under the—"

"Neighbour's doormat, I know."

Greg nodded. "Apartment three zero—"

"Nine. I _know_," I said.

"Okay." He smiled. "You do know."

We got into our cars; now that we were separated by iron and steel, I felt more alone. I followed his taillights down the highway, and didn't think. He took the exit that led to his part of town. I drove alone in the dark down the highway. Half a mile later, I stopped the car, and got out. I looked out across the expanse of sand and rock. The moonlight made me feel strange. The moon disappeared behind the clouds. I got into the car and drove.

THE END.


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